Hospital For Souls
by Hunger-and-Insanity
Summary: Human survival denotes not merely staying alive, but also minimizing discomfort and attaining a better quality of life with meaning. Doctor Peeta/Patient Katniss. AU, Psychological Drama.
1. Chapter 1

Hospital For Souls

 **A/N:** Hey everyone, this story was originally written over 2 years ago, and I haven't updated it in over a year. It's safe to say a lot has changed in my life since its inception. I'm a different person, older and wiser and all that jazz. And its time I get back to my writing roots, which I have missed so dearly. I almost forgot how to write and it's made me realize how much I need writing in my life. So here I am, starting anew, with freshly edited chapters and a whole new focus of where to take this story (a lil something for new and old readers out there, you are the people that keep my love of stories alive). As always, don't forget to drop a review, PM, or whatever. Feedback is gold.

Summary: _Human survival denotes not merely staying alive, but also minimizing discomfort and attaining a better quality of life with_ _meaning_ _._

* * *

 _The Doctor_

I wake up to the sound of my alarm buzzing noisily in my ear, effectively snapping my eyes open and pulling me out of my dreamy state. I can't say I'm particularly happy with the result. It was a surprisingly pleasant dream—a rarity in my case—though, I've forgotten nearly half of it by now. With a groan, I slam my hand down on the irritating black box, hitting the snooze button, and bury my head further into the soft cotton pillow.

The material feels heavenly against my cheek, but my efforts are in vain. I'll have to get up eventually, and the sooner the day is done with, the better.

I flip onto my back and swing my legs out to the floor. I don't even bother glancing at the other side of my bed. No one's slept in that spot in years, something that's very unlikely to change in the near future. I shake my head clear of those unwanted thoughts and head for the shower.

Forty minutes later, I'm fully dressed, brown paper bag at hand for a certain someone, and then I'm out the door.

Panem University Hospital is running like business as usual when I step through the sliding glass doors. Doctors in green scrubs and nurses in blue ones roam the lobby like it's their own, their colorful attire contrasting against the laden white walls and gray tinted floors. The air reeks of the familiar scent of sterile chemicals and freshener. Visitors and patients sitting on benches pressed against the walls visibly wrinkle their noses at the smell, but anyone working here long enough has become accustomed to it.

I'm straightening the collar of my white work coat when a heavy hand grips my shoulder.

"Well, aren't you coming in early all of a sudden," says a gruff male voice that oozes sarcasm. The clock above the receptionist desk clearly shows I've missed about 10 minutes on my shift.

I smirk and turn to greet the sound's source, holding up the paper bag between my fingers. "I figured you'd at least want breakfast badly enough to give me a free pass, Haymitch."

The older doctor with the red rimmed eyes and weeks-past-needing-a-trim dark hair huffs back in annoyance, removing his hand to fold his arms across his chest. I'm unsurprised, and disappointed, at the noticeably present scent of alcohol on him. Haymitch Abernathy's drinking is Panem Hospital's—and District 12's—worst kept secret. It's unprecedented how little the booze seems to affect his work. He even has a dark whiskey stain low on his jacket.

He snatches the bag from my hand quicker than I would've expected him to. For a middle-aged drinker, his reflexes are top notch. He jerks his head to the side and starts walking, indicating me to follow. I know where we're headed without him having to explain.

The cafeteria is sparsely occupied, and mostly by patients with non-critical cases, but there are a few nurses and doctors seated as well. It's a quaint place with not much to offer other than a respite from work and recovery. Patients love it here. It gives them something to do other than lie on their beds and flirt with the constant boredom. At least the air smells more natural here with all the food wafting around.

"So…. " I drag the vowel, once we're settled and Haymitch is done fishing out a hearty bagel and a container of cream cheese. It wasn't necessary, but it will sure put me in his good graces with what I'm about to ask. "How much have you had so far?"

He knows what I'm alluding to. But he laughs at the question, obviously amused, and spreads a generous amount of cheese on the bread. "I don't remember that being any of your damn business." He says.

"Can't blame me for looking out for my boss's best interest."

"That's touching. My heart is just exploding with warmth."

"You still haven't answered my question." I counter playfully. Because sometimes it's irresistible to rile him up with an attitude like his.

Haymitch rolls his eyes, "Look here, Mr. Self-righteous-know-it-all, what or how much I drink is still none of your concern. I've been doing this since before you were learning about Darwin in secondary school, and I'm still breathing." He takes a greedy bite out of his breakfast.

I sigh in irritation, biting down a comeback about his super-human liver, and drop the subject. He's too stubborn for his own good, and if I keep pressing him on it, that'll only get me on his bad side. He barely tolerates me thus far. It's confusing why he even keeps me company with his opinion so low. He's probably just lonely. Not many people in this hospital willingly choose to associate themselves with him. They think I'm either a teacher's pet or flat out crazy for doing just that. I think it's a shame, because the man—despite his many faults and overbearing attitude—is a gifted doctor. There's never a boring day working with him.

I'm silent for a moment, eyeing him devour my floured creation. "Good?" I ask.

"Very," he says, mouth full of food. I can barely make out what comes out next, "AndIhateyouforit." But I chuckle nonetheless.

That's when the telltale siren of a half-dozen comunicuffs go off, cutting off all conversation in the room.

The few doctors and nurses present stare at the metal wrist devices, reading its message. Haymitch doesn't even lift a finger. Once finished, most of them rush to get out the door in a hurry like a group of panicked animals in a chase. I'm confused, and I catch one of them before he can run off. I think he's a nurse named Thom.

"Hey, what's going on?" I inquire. There's a look that crosses his face, calm but concerned. I know the look well. It's a sign of an urgent case around here.

"Ambulance just dropped off a critical one: a girl bleeding heavily from her wounds. Peacekeepers think it's an attempted suicide." I don't get anything else out of him before he takes off to join the rest of the pack. They must be part of the Emergency unit.

A lazy grin spreads across Haymitch's face, eyes unfocused, and showing no sign that he's taking the situation all that seriously. "Well, looks like another lost soul heading our way," He's now turning and inspecting the bagel in his hand." I think you're in the wrong line of work, Mellark. You should be teaching Betty Crocker how to bake some cakes. These are remarkable."

He continues eating unbothered, completely at peace, without sparing another word. Adversely, I feel a tight pain in my chest. It's as if the air has been forcibly knocked out of my lungs, robbing me of its oxygen. My mind is already conjuring up images of a faceless girl laying on a gurney, slightly bloodied up and unconscious, surrounded by nurses attempting to stop the flow of leaking redness that soaks through the sheets. It's not a pretty picture. This is a hospital, blood and accidents are common. We're trained well for those scenarios.

But I can't remember the last time I've heard of a suicide—attempted or otherwise—happening in District 12. I think it's safe to say it's been a number of years.

Haymitch is snapping his fingers in front of my face now, pulling me out of my trance. I blink twice before meeting his gaze. "What?" I ask.

"I said, are you okay, boy?" he repeats, annoyance palpable in his undertone. At least his brow is furrowed and he's looking at me sharply, genuine concern passing through his features. I didn't even realize he'd aired a question before.

I nod vigorously, "Yeah, fine."

He gives me a once over with his eyes, as if doubting my wellbeing, and then shakes his head. "Alright then, paramedics are gonna need some time patching the girl up. So, until she's transferred over to us, we need you in Psychiatrics. Today is Johanna's turn. Think you can handle her, kid?"

I smirk, but it falls flatter than usual, "Of course I can. I'm not helpless, Haymitch."

"Then get going."

Another tease at him, a signature scowl directed at me, and I don't have to be told twice to get back to work. Only problem is, the nameless girl whose life is on the line in the ICU refuses to leave my thoughts. And I can't think of one good reason why that is.

* * *

 _The Patient_

Softness encases me, like a cocoon would a caterpillar. It feels nice, relaxing. Peaceful. I almost forgot what the word entailed. My panic is gone, rolling off my body in waves. For the first time in a long time, I can breathe normally. There's no sense of entrapment anymore. No agonizing depression to suffocate me. No hunger to starve my body. No walls to cave in and crush me. No graves to dig anymore.

It's someone else who will be burying me. A complete stranger. I'm oddly content with that. They will not cry over me or give rousing eulogies to somber crowds. If anyone even attends. I don't deserve a big crowded funeral. No, it's more suitable to be obscure, forgotten like this, from people's minds as I hide in my shell, like an endangered turtle. They can save their tears; I have no one else to live for. I don't even know why it took me this long.

And to think, all it took was my hand and a blade to my wrist.

It was almost haunting, the number of times the idea crossed my mind once conceived. I had planned this. Imagined the ways this could happen, accounted for as many variables as possible. I wouldn't let anyone interfere. It needed to be today.

And still, it had been the hardest thing I'd ever have to do in life. I had to fight off my own survival instincts, which nearly seized control of my hand and screamed at me to drop the blade. I couldn't do it, I just couldn't. I was too weak.

Only one thought kept me from turning back and throwing the razor blade across the room till it shattered into thousands of pieces. _I didn't deserve to be alive._

And giving me the extra bit of strength I needed. But even then, I stilled my shaky hold on the instrument.

I was missing something. Craving something, to be more exact. I had the comforting thought, but I just felt empty inside.

I longed to hear a voice other than my own. I didn't care whose. I longed to feel another human being's touch. Even that green-eyed, bronze-tanned prick at the fish market would've been better than nothing. He'd winked and smirked at me when our fingers brushed over my order; I merely scowled at his suggestive flirtations. But, more importantly, I longed for bread. Bread meant there was hope, and I desperately yearned for some hope.

I can't put a precise date on when I began associating the food with the feeling. I just know I can never look at the baked staple again without feeling my heartbeat race and a flutter tickle my stomach like a swarm of butterflies. Or thinking about the boy behind the bread.

That's when my needy thoughts came to a halt. I was procrastinating. No one was there to speak to me. I'd disconnected the house phone in a fit of depressed rage as it shattered against the wall I'd thrown it at. No one was there to give me solace or wrap their arms around me. The house was empty of life with me as the sole exception. And no one was going to sneak me some bread this time. It had to be today.

I started weeping. Then wailing, curling myself into a ball on the tiled bathroom floor I'd taken refuge in. Then I finally did it. I slashed my wrist. The blood arrived soon after, but wasn't dramatically overflowing as I so often thought it would be. It took longer than I'd expected, but I remember I was still crying when I'd, at long last, mercifully succumbed into dark, savory unconsciousness. In my blacked out state, I finally found a peace that had eluded me for years, even in my sleep. Bread was still on my mind, and so was the silhouette of a man, now grown up, with shaggy blond hair and intense sapphire blue eyes. The pounding of my heart made my chest ache like a punching bag. It saddened me to know he'd be the last image in my mind.

Peeta Mellark, the boy who saved my life, wasn't here to save me again. He couldn't save me. I was simply destined to fail him. Destined to give up hope, like that last loaf of bread I'd rejected from him years ago.


	2. Chapter 2

**Yay! This is a pretty quick update for me, and I love you all for each and every fav, follow, and review. Hope this satisfies you for the time being. I know it's long and pretty short on dialogue, but bear with me. There are many good things to come.**

 **Disclaimer:** I sadly do not own The Hunger Games. Fuck my life.

* * *

 **Hospital For Souls**

 _The Patient_

I should've known something was wrong when I'd started feeling lightheaded. That was the first sign.

The second sign was the irritating rawness of my throat. It made it much harder to breathe and felt as dry as sandpaper. My only comfort was the soft cocoon that enveloped me, like worn but freshly cleaned bed sheets. I imagine this is what a cloud would feel like—if it wasn't composed of vapor and air. I took that as a sign that I was surely dead.

My father used to tell me and my sister bedtime stories. One night, after we had asked about what _the Hanging Tree_ song was about, he'd explained the idea of death to us. We were both very young; I was no older than nine years of age. Prim, a measly five and a half. I had a faint grasp of the idea, but it was very vague. Our father had told us stories and myths Panem's ancestors had believed: the blinding light at the end of the tunnel that was a person's life, which would flash before their eyes in milliseconds. A city in the clouded sky with a gate made of gold and angels flocking around. A place for the good people of the world to live out their lives after death.

My sister sucked up the stories like a sponge, but I was more mature. I could see the look on my father's face. A small, satisfied grin etched into his dark features, but a spark of doubt in his steely gray eyes. He seemed to like the myths, but I never got the impression he truly believed them. Our ancestors weren't known to be the wisest of people back then. Most of them were horribly fictitious, fanciful tales conjured by others to entertain their children or themselves. Or so I thought.

I guess I was finally about to find out.

But I was too late to notice the signs.

Muffled sounds alert me that I'm not alone in my environment. The consistent beeping far off to my right is proof enough of that, along with the shuffling of feet.

 _Maybe the city in the sky had a lot of foot traffic,_ I wonder.

My entire left arm aches with pain from where I'd cut the delicate skin of my wrist all the up to my upper forearm. I remember the sting it had caused, the ghost's touch of the blade sends goose bumps through my core. It has the unintended effect of rippling to my extremities, allowing me to regain movement of my legs. It _does_ feel as if I'm wrapped in a blanket of some sort. But that's ridiculous; I'm dead, I couldn't—or shouldn't—feel anything.

My eyes remain closed. I don't want to admit it, but I'm truly frightened by what I would find if I open them. A dark empty room? A group of angels waiting over me to break from my slumber? Anything is possible at this point. Death is an unsolvable mystery to the living.

I can't feel the minutes passing; only the short intervals between every beep off to my right give any indication that time is moving.

 _Beep…beep...beep._ It's like an electric ping on a computer. For all my fear of the unknown, foreign situation I'm in, I find that sound more annoying than anything else.

On the eleventh beep, I begin to grow restless, tossing and turning about, much to the pained protests of my arm. On the eighteenth, I start exploring my cocoon with my fingertips, feeling out the delicate material. It's a familiar touch, resembling a linen or possibly cotton fabric. My mother would surely know which, but she's gone as well. On the thirty-first beep, I mentally prepare myself for what's to come, forcing my nerves to calm and harden like steel. _'You can't hide forever, Little Duck.'_ My subconscious memories remind me. I can't stay here. I'm too vulnerable in my current state: eyes closed, injured and in pain, confined under a layer of restrictive cloth. Panic rises in my chest and greets me like an old friend. The beeping seems to accelerate and become louder. Flight is essential now.

I'd laugh at myself if I could. Even dead I was still worrying about my survival in the afterlife. It was all purely instinctual, of course. The instincts won out—they almost always did.

Slowly, I move to open my eyes. The lids feel heavy under the stress of disuse, but I force them to comply. I'm instantly blinded by the brightness when they come agape, which doesn't do anything to help my sense of insecurity. Tentatively, my sight adjusts to the glow of the room.

I'm starring up at a white ceiling, fluorescent bulbs shining down on me. The panic comes to me exceptionally quick. My breath gets caught in my throat. I know it's too late by now, I'm already processing my surroundings and I'll get to an unavoidable, unbearable conclusion soon enough. A blanket is wrapped over my body, which I now notice is situated in a bed. The beeping to my right is from a monitor that measures my heartbeat, and attached to other complex machines. It sounds off erratically, in sync to the pounding in my ears, and taking with it the calming silence. That only worsens the anxiety that's threatening to paralyze my form. I look at my left arm last. It's heavily bandaged around my wrist. A few inches above it, a tube is punctured and taped to my skin, feeding blood and fluids into my system from a plastic medical bag.

I take it in. I take it all in. The omnipresent odor of blood—my blood—invades my senses. It makes me want to empty my stomach and pull at the roots of my hair.

My lips are quivering. My mind races a million miles a second. I can no longer focus on any of the surroundings because my eyes are moving everywhere at once.

For the sake of my sanity, streams of denial pour into my consciousness. But their dosage is too little too late, and my survivalist rationale will have none of it.

I shut my eyes tight and cover my head in my arms, gripping my skull and stretching the tube leading to my injured wrist. As if any of that will shield me from the conclusion I'm about to reach. And a half second later, the thought finally penetrates my defenses and breaks me.

 _I'm still alive._

Despite the rawness of my throat, I scream the first thing that comes to my mind.

 _Prim._

Her name shatters any prevailing silence in the room, and I'm wailing again just like I did when I tried (and failed) to take my life.

I only stop crying to throw the blanket off me, and pull at the tube in my arm until I'm free of its life-giving fluids. It hurts like hell, but I barely register that through my hazy thoughts and tears. I look down at myself, finding I'm wearing nothing but a thin, plain nightgown that ends just above my knees. It'll have to do; I'm in no position to complain. The fear-induced adrenaline running through my veins reminds me that escape is my sole goal at the moment. But when I attempt to jump off the bed, I fall flat on my stomach and a whimper of pain escapes me. My body is half numb (probably from some drugs) and I haven't yet gotten control of my motor skills, but I crawl my way on the floor till I reach the entrance.

Two pairs of shoes and dark blue pants greet my vision. I feel twin sets of arms grab me and haul me off my feet like a scrawny kitten. A kitten with nails and isn't afraid to bite. I manage to do just that to one of the men's ears. He yelps in pain and drops me back down, while I thrash to escape the second man. He eats a well-placed kick to the gut and doubles over. I just make it out of the room when reinforcements arrive, and I'm quickly outnumbered. Escape is futile now.

Five men have to drag me back onto the bed and hold me down. I struggle and claw and scream my sister's name to no avail. One of the men grabs a hold of my arm and jabs a needle in. The edges of my vision cloud up soon after, and it's not long until the empty space of unconsciousness pulls me under once again.

* * *

 _The Doctor_

Everyone on the Psychiatric floor can hear the screaming that resonates from below us. The next moment is one of pandemonium and bedlam. _Code One. Code One._ Some of the patients start going into hysteria. Pillows are being thrown everywhere, patients running around chaotically. One man accuses another of stealing a book of his, they shout and punches are flying soon enough. Three patients are curled up on the floor crying their eyes out. To be fair, someone is always crying on this floor at least once a day, but still. The place is in uproar, and there are only a handful of professionals present in charge of dozens of cases.

This all happens just as I think my day is going pretty well.

It takes almost an half an hour for the madness to subdue, and another half for a calm atmosphere to return once back up arrives to relieve us of the pressure.

I slump down on a visitor's bench with a groan, rubbing the exhaustion from my eyes. This day is not going well at all. I had to physically separate patients and console them until they were calm enough to listen—easier said than done. It's a miracle no one was hurt too badly. I curse the man who came up with the idea of putting people with mental disorders all under the same roof. And Haymitch, for sending me up here.

I allow my eyes to close and lean my head back till it hits the wall, giving myself a few minutes of much needed rest from the unruliness. The bench shifts only slightly as more weight settles down to my right. I don't even open my eyes to find out who it could be.

A woman's voice gives me that answer. "You look like you've been through hell, Blondie." A sassy tone states. I can practically hear the smirk that crosses Johanna Mason's lips.

Johanna isn't like the other patients at Panem University Hospital. She's what we like to call an ' _import_ ' here. In other words, a long term case coming from outside Twelve for medical treatment. They're rare but not unusual, especially where the Capitol is concerned. The idea behind it is that a possible change of scenery away from the stresses of home provides a more effective recovery with psychiatric patients. Not that many find their way over to Twelve, though. We only have two imports: Johanna from Seven and Annie Cresta from Four. Annie is a day-patient—comes by for a few hours for her therapy sessions, then leaves to sleep at home with her fiancé. Johanna doesn't have that luxury, something she never tires of bringing up. Her envy is as much of a problem for people as her brashness.

I snicker and exhale a heavy breath. "Well, your roommates haven't been making my day any easier if that's what you're saying." It's a major understatement to the hell that has just transpired in the last 60 minutes. I lightly bang my head against the wall just to clear those thoughts from my head.

She chuckles. "Oh, I don't think _they_ are the ones you have to worry about. You heard about that girl in Intensive Care? She's got quite a set of lungs; I think she almost busted my eardrum with her whining. But...that's nothing a little duct tape can't fix."

My eyes snap open as I give her an incredulous look. Not because she's considering taping a person's mouth shut—that would be a notable setback to the social progress she's making—but because she brought up our mysterious newcomer. After everything that's happened so far today, I haven't given much thought to exactly _who_ was the source of the screaming and the cause of my current misfortune. I'm a bit disappointed in myself for not making the connection sooner. The girl's never even left my thoughts, save for the giant ruckus she caused up here, forcing me to focus on my actual patients.

"That was _her_?" I ask quietly, lowering my voice to not attract attention from others.

"Noooo, that was the mysterious cry of a banshee whose mission was to spoil the day and pop my ears like a hovercraft," Johanna counters in the same tone with an eye roll. "Are you really that brainless, Blondie?" her voice returns to a higher octave. "You're lucky you're good looking, Doc. I don't think I can handle average-ass people without brains."

I manage to crack a smile at that. "Who gave you that info on the girl anyway?"

"A little birdie." She shrugs nonchalantly.

"It was Thom, wasn't it?"

"I _do_ have other eyes and ears around in this hellhole. I _have_ been here long enough." She sounds almost insulted, giving me a narrow eyed look. A telltale sign I'll get no answer if I prod on.

It's my turn to roll my eyes. "Remind me again why you're her exactly? You know how much Haymitch just loves to hear you banter."

She waves me off with a hand, dismissively. "Haymitch is an old fart with his own problems. You're much more entertaining. And innocent. How have you not been corrupted by me yet?" She leans into me, running a finger down my arm with a knowingly suggestive smirk.

It falls flat in producing its intended effect.

I huff in annoyance, removing her hand gently, and leveling her with a look. "We've been over this Johanna; you're not allowed to have physical contact."

Ms. Mason is known for being a nymphomaniac—one of the reason she's on this floor, as well as having a phobia and being generally neurotic—and has been trying for the better part of her stay to seduce me. It's become something of a running joke between us during our sessions, and we have both laughed about it. But that doesn't stop her from trying. Our exchanges haven't always been this smooth. I'm her therapist; she's my patient. Nothing more can come of it. The issue of _transference_ is something I take very seriously, and it took time and effort to get where we are today and still keep a professional standing with the brown pixie-haired woman. I've grown immune to her teasing advances anyway. Beautiful as she may be, I don't feel that sort of attraction toward her. I think she only does it to _'rid me of my inexperience'_. Or because I have a penis. Her words, not mine.

She slumps back down on the bench irritated. "You're no fun," she glares. "And this ' _no touchy_ ' thing is inhumane. No wonder everyone on this floor is so damn depressed, they can't have any meaningful contact."

I simply shrug a shoulder, "I'm sorry, Johanna. It's not allowed."

She shakes her head at me, "You mild-mannered boys are always the hardest to come by, and then you just go on and on about your damn 'rules'." She punctuates with air quotations. "What's it take to get a little action around here?"

I raise a brow her expectantly. "Well, there's always the more traditional way. Meet a good guy, get to know him over coffee, wait till the third date till you can start…initiating anything." I emphasize that last remark.

She looks at me with this faraway look in her irises and a lazy grin, as if she's listening to a naive, idealistic child. "Oh, Doc. I think you should lay off the Rom-Com for a while. It doesn't always work out that way." And then, just to make her point and get to me, she adds, "Besides, it's not like you're getting any, either. I heard you haven't had a girlfriend in some time."

I turn to glare at her. "Who told you about that?"

She practically beams at me, a mischievous glint igniting her brown irises. "So it's true!" she exclaims, leaning her head in to rest on her palms. "Tell me, who was the idiotic bitch that let you get away?"

"I am not discussing my personal life with you of all people."

 _I am not opening that can of worms up to anyone,_ I add subconsciously.

"Now you're being a hypocrite. Isn't it your job to get people to open up about their deepest feelings and shit? Just a name! That's all I'm asking for."

I shift my gaze away, too annoyed to focus on her. "How did you even find out?"

 _Must be those many eyes and ears she's keeping up with._

Her saucy smirk makes a comeback in my periphery. "People gossip, Blondie, especially in tight-knit little places like this. And a girl's got to keep herself entertained somehow. You try lying down in a bed for a couple hours in the fucking middle of the day and see how exciting it is. I just _live_ for our little tea-time talks, and you certainly know how to keep a girl busy."

Cocky as she may be, Johanna does know how to flatter a man. I blame that as the reason why my anger dissipates as quickly as it does and a grin threatens to overtake my twitching lips. The beeping of my communicuff is a welcomed distraction from the nymph sitting aside from me, trying vainly to look over my shoulder at the message. My face slips into that professional mask every doctor has as I read the line.

 _Dr. A: Patient, stable condition. Requesting consult for psych assessment. Room A202. Details to follow soon._

The message ends, along with the rest of my R&R time.

"Well, thanks for the company," I nod sincerely to Johanna, pushing myself off the bench to stand, stretching my body out to work the inactive muscles. "But I think I should be getting back to work by now."

She shrugs nonchalantly and sighs. "Fine, fine. Go and leave me to my own devices. It's not like I'll die of boredom."

I chuckle, straightening my work coat and smoothing out the invisible dust and lint. "You're in a hospital; I don't think we can get rid of you that easily."

An easy smile returns to her countenance and she regards me with well concealed worry. "Be careful with that girl, Doc. She's a feisty one. Rumor has it she bit Darius in the ear and kicked Thresh in the ball-sack."

I wince at the mental image, but nod in understanding. Guess I'll have to pay the guys a visit as soon as I can. "Thanks for the heads up. I'll see you in a bit, Johanna. Take care of yourself, and I'm afraid our next session has to be rescheduled for tomorrow." She rolls her eyes as if she needs reminding, but nods nonetheless. I give her one last look before making my way down the hall and head for the elevator.

She waits about ten seconds before calling out loudly, "My room is always open if you ever need a stress reliever!" Typical innuendo, but it's a mere jest. I've stopped growing embarrassed by her words a long time ago. It does cause a few people to turn their heads curiously, though.

"I'll take a rain check on that!" I tease, throwing a final goodbye wave over my shoulder and entering the elevator compartment.

The ride itself is short and uneventful. I step out of the elevator with long stride and quicken my pace. As I make my way through the congested passages of the building on my way to the Intensive Care Unit, my mind wanders. I know almost every floor in this wing like the back of my hand, navigating the halls without really focusing isn't an issue for me.

Voices drift in and out of my ears, none commanding my attention for long. Everyone seems to be talking about the girl. They all whisper the details in passing moments, as if no one else is privy to the conversation, yet everyone is keenly aware of them. It's scarily similar to high school, and I dutifully ignore all of it. It's just like Johanna said, gossip is entertainment.

I can't be pulled into that kind of thinking. I'm a clinical psychologist, and that's just not how I operate. I have to step into that room with an _objective_ , and _open mind_. Whoever she is, she's still a person in pain, and I have to correct that in whatever way I can.

Dr. Aurelius is waiting for me outside the patient's room after I turn the corner.

The white haired, bespectacled man with sleep-ridden eyes greets me with a polite nod. He's very nice, experienced, and a hard worker, but I've never seen him shut his eyes for more than a few minutes—which is a rarity with those who are normally on call during the graveyard shift.

I nod back, "Morning, Doctor."

"Morning, Mellark. Everything alright in Psychiatrics now?"

I laugh nervously, "Yes, thankfully for now. What have you got for me?"

"Standard psych evaluation, we had to give her a heavy dose to calm her down. She nearly cut herself again, removing the IV the way she did, but she's being weaned off. Should wake up any minute now, I suspect."

I give a light smile, "Thank you, Doctor."

And he places a comforting hand on my shoulder, "Good luck, my boy," Before he goes off down the corridor. Apparently everyone is aware of how unusual this entire situation is. The attempted suicide, the incident, and the aura of this mysterious woman.

Those are the thoughts that occupy my mind as I take a deep breath and cross the threshold into her room. I look onto its occupant. Then my heart stops for a second. And I know for a fact the words _objective_ and _open minded_ are tossed out of my vocabulary in that missing heartbeat.

She's alone in the room, stable and unconscious, without a roommate to share it with and only machines as her company. She's also strapped down to the rails of her bed. Her dark hair falls over her shoulders messily, and her skin is that patented olive tone. Other than that, she's aged only slightly, but into something more…mature, fuller. It makes the blood flow inside me redirect away from my brain to a lower area and my legs tense in anticipation.

A whirlwind of emotions compete for dominion over my body. Shock. Sadness. Remorse. Hope. Fear. Anger. I'm not accustomed to associating that last one with the woman before me. They blend into a storm that rages beneath me and pulls me in every which direction they want. This goes on as my mind focuses on a specific memory.

I can count the number of times we've spoken to each other on both hands and still have fingers to spare. But it's the most recent discussion that stings the hardest, and anger seems to be winning the internal battle. I know I can't stay here.

My legs unfreeze from their spot and I run as far away from this room as I can before I can do something stupid and rash.

She's never going to leave my thoughts now. I'll have to see her every day, help her recover from the trauma of what she's done to herself. I don't know if I can deal with that. All I can concentrate on is two things.

Her name is Katniss Everdeen, and 10 years ago on Graduation Night, she nearly broke my heart.

* * *

 **Don't forget to review, follow, or favorite and all that jazz.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I sadly do not own The Hunger Games. Fuck my life.

 **Hospital For Souls**

 _The Doctor_

The pounding of my fist against the glass door as I shout for Haymitch is so hurried I'm shocked the material doesn't crack. I can't even see if anyone is even present inside through the opaque surface. I'm just going on pure intuition. I have to wait several seconds, all of which feel like hours, before I hear the words; "Dammit, Mellark, will you quit your damn shouting!" fire back. The door flies open so quickly I have to take a step out of range so I'm not hit with it.

I'm met with the sight of a distraught, and thoroughly annoyed, Haymitch staring daggers at the level of my head. His chin is pointed low and makes his glare more intimidating.

His menacing gray eyes are a little glazed over, and I notice he's leaning heavily against the now open door frame. His white coat is only hooked through one of his arms while the rest hangs loosely off his shoulder. A foul smell is also radiating off of him. It doesn't take me too long to come to the fact he's been drinking again. I'm more irritated than shocked by this.

"Well," he scoffs, surprisingly without slurring the word. "What's so damn important that you had to interrupt my break, Mellark?"

I open my mouth to respond. Except nothing comes out. Not a sound. I cannot think of a single way to phrase all the jumbled thoughts running through my head into words. I'm still being fought over internally by my emotions, clouding my ability to keep calm and deliver a rational answer. Hell, even if I could, none of it would get passed the constricting lump in my throat. I'd probably end up choking if I tried.

Haymitch, although still retaining that glassy look and unbalanced stance, is more composed, now frowning at my behavior and furrowing my brows. "Are you feeling alright, kid?" he asks cautiously, as if a part of him doesn't want to know.

Because I can't think of anything else to say or do, I push past him and enter his office wordlessly. It gives me time to collect myself in private.

I'm pacing and running my hands through my hair when he closes the door and saunters back to me.

"Look, kid. Whatever it is you're here for just spit it out. I can't have you breaking down on me. You're the only sane one out of the two of us," he says rather brusquely. It's no wonder he and Johanna can't stand each other. They're both too similar and rough around the edges to get along civilly.

I swallow the saliva forming to push the lump in my throat down and gather a few deep breaths. I eventually drop my hands from my hair, but they end up twitching at my side.

This is ridiculous. Katniss Everdeen should not be having this much of an effect on me, I remind myself. She's a weakness of mine. Even after 10 years of estrangement behind us, that woman has no idea exactly how much of an effect she can have. I take Haymitch up on his advice and just spit out the first thing that comes to mind.

"I can't do it," I say, a humorless laugh escaping at the realization of how true those words sound aloud. "I can't treat her."

"Treat who? The girl in ICU?"

I nod tersely. At least I can function normally again.

"You shouldn't sell yourself so short, kid. I've seen you work—"

"It's not…that," I cut him off. "It's just…we have a history together."

He arches his brows in surprise, so much so they almost disappear into his hairline. Obviously that was not the answer he was expecting. "You have a _history_ together?" he emphasizes, slowly on the word.

I suddenly feel embarrassed to be in the room. Of course we didn't have an actual history together. A girl like Katniss Everdeen and a guy like me. Only in my prepubescent dreams, and those days are long gone. "No, not that. We went to school together is all."

His expression deflates rather quickly and he starts shaking his head, reaching for a flask in his coat pocket and downs a generous sip. He strolls around me till he's behind his desk and sitting down with his feet plopped up on the glossy desk. His coat is still hanging off only one of his arms. I'd laugh if my nerves weren't so frayed.

"So she's an acquaintance from school. Were you two ever close?"

I sigh, "Not really. We talked maybe a handful of times. We were in very different social circles."

"Peeta, you know the rules better than anyone, it's a weak link. That's not cause enough to refuse her treatment. There has to be a significant association between you two." He takes another drink, "If I were you and I ever met one of my schoolmates here, I'm pretty sure my first reaction wouldn't be to go knocking on somebody else's door. Unless, of course, it's to put as much distance between us as possible," he concedes, but stares deeply into my eyes, looking for something I don't wish to bring up. "I'm not buying it, kid. Now why don't you really wanna treat our newest inductee?"

It's not that I don't _want to_. It's that I don't know if I _can_.

"I told you; we know each other, that'll make things awkward. I'd be the last person she'd come to for help. She won't feel comfortable around me and I just…" I run a hand through my hair and turn away from him in frustration. I can feel his gaze boring into the back of my head.

A sad sigh escapes him, and his eyes are most likely soft as he says, "She's the significant one to you, not the other way around then."

His words are true, not that I didn't know that already. There was just too much that went on back then for me to ignore. I was in love with her, and I can't put those past feelings aside, no matter how distant those days are. I'm just glad Haymitch has toned down the attitude enough to show a little understanding for once. I half expected to tease me about it all. I'm glad he hasn't so far.

"How long has it been since you two have spoken?"

I let out another long breath and turn to face him. "Not since we were both in senior year. It was a long time ago, but I'm pretty sure not long enough for her to forget about me." I imagine it'd be a bit more than difficult to considering our shared past. "So what do you think I should do?"

He rolls his eyes, like the answer is obvious. "Treat her, of course."

"What? Why?" I ask. The second I hear the word, I realize just how stupid the question is. There is no 'why' when it comes to helping patients. It's a duty, not a choice. But I don't expect the next words that come out of Haymitch's mouth.

"Because you're probably all she has left." Hearing them makes me flinch, and feel infinitely guiltier.

"The way I see it," he continues, actually putting down his flask to stand up authoritatively. "This is the best thing that's happened all day. I know a tough nut to crack when I see one, and from what I hear, she fits the bill perfectly. You have a connection, it's weak, which is good because I don't want the damn Ethics Committee breathing down my neck over this. But it might be a blessing in disguise. I just need to know if you can handle _yourself_ , Mellark. Can you do that?"

 _No. Maybe. I have no idea. This is a recipe for disaster_ , I think but don't air my opinion. The guilt continues to eat away at me. Whatever discomfort I feel around her doesn't change the fact that she needs help. I just have to put hose feeling aside and get to work.

The smirk that lights his face tells me he knows my resolve is crumbling and I'm coming around to his idea of treatment. He's probably basking in the idea that he's right and I'm being the irrational one. Or he's even drunker than I first thought.

I nod curtly. "Alright, I can do that." My mind is set, and I know there's no going back on it now. This is the right thing to do.

"Wonderful," he says smirking behind his flask and drinking it dry. "And if she ever becomes too much for you, I do know a few Districts with available space for imports." His comment is so casual it might be considered comforting.

But I actually grimace at the thought. Although I certainly have some reservations on this, I don't trust anyone else to solve the complex patchwork of a woman that is Katniss Everdeen. He's right, I'm the best—and maybe only—chance she's got.

"Now, get going, kid," he orders, leading me to the door with his hand on my back. "You've been killing my buzz all day and I can't stand to hear any more about all this messed-up, daytime drama."

With one strong shove, I'm outside again, the door closing behind me with a resounding slam. And I'm starting to ponder for the tenth time today why I respect the man so much.

* * *

 _The Patient_

When I awake from the drugs, I feel as if I'm not alone—it's an instinctual thing, developed over many years of hunting. My eyelids are as heavy as lead, rendering me blind once again, but I'm not nearly as frightened by it as before. I know where I am, my surroundings haven't changed. The only differences are the straps tying down my arms and my new guest likely sitting at the foot of my bed.

I don't want to deal with whoever the hell it is. I want them to release me, take me back home, and leave me there to die. It'd be less trouble for them anyway.

I wish they could give me that, but I know better. I won't have a choice in staying alive, that choice has already been made up for me. I haven't resigned myself to that fate just yet, but I don't have the same fight in me after all the struggling I've been through. I might as well try to get this over with and be done with it already. I'm clearly not going anywhere any time soon.

Ignoring the pounding headache and the strain put on my muscles, my lids comply into semi-openness and light floods my vision.

With newly adjusted sight, I look to my guest, Peeta Mellark.

I still all movements, suddenly frozen in place, eyes wide in disbelief, heart beating erratically in shock. _Peeta Mellark!_ I must be seeing things, a mirage. There he is, relaxed and laid back in a visitor's chair cushion, his focus directed on me. A thousand questions overwhelm my thoughts.

 _What_ is he doing here?

What is _he_ doing here?

What is he _doing_ here?

What is he doing _here_?

All excellent questions all trapped in the region between my mouth and lungs, threatening to choke me of air then and there. Maybe I still have a chance of dying after all.

Only now it's death by pure, unadulterated mortification.

 _He_ cannot seriously be here at one of the worst moments of my life. I say 'one of' because there's stiff competition for the honor of number one. Regardless, this situation has now gone from bad to unbearable. I can't think of any other person I'd rather not want to see me like this than that man sitting on the chair next to my bed. On the day I try to kill myself—the day he was the last living thought on my mind—he shows up miraculously. The sayings are true. Fate is beyond cruel.

"Hi," he greets, pulling me out of my inner monologue. A reserved smile graces his face. He's aged nicely over the years, losing some of his boyish features, but his eyes are still the same deep blue and his ashy blonde hairs are as disheveled as ever. He's wearing a sparkling white coat and neatly trimmed black pants, one leg resting over the other. I probably look like a mess in a thin burlap sack in comparison, but I can't manage to avoid his intense gaze.

"Hello," I croak, swallowing down the lump in my throat. I finally look away when I see his smile grow another half an inch. He looks glad to see me, and I shouldn't want him to under the circumstances. But I do. He's familiar, and I'll take whatever comfort I find in that.

"It's good you're finally awake, I was starting to doze off myself."

I try for a smile, but it comes out a grimace. I'm still a little numb in some weird places from the morphling they injected, and I wouldn't be surprised if my face was one of them.

When I look back, I notice his eyes have shifted to the straps around my arms. There's an extreme, held back emotion in his gaze I can't yet name. I move them experimentally. They barely wade through an inch of space against the restraints.

"I'm sorry about those," he says, genuine regret seeping into his tone. "They're standard procedure when things tend to turn violent around here. We'll remove them after we take some tests and transfer you."

That catches my attention. "Transfer me where?" my voice cracks, but it's becoming easier to use, so I don't complain.

"My ward, Psychiatrics. But even through you're stable, we can't move you out without that wrist healed up and you feeling well rested. Until then, you'll have to spend the night here. I'm sorry."

It's the second time he's apologized, and he has no reason to. That is the definition of the Peeta Mellark I remember. I still have to ask him something, though. So I swallow thickly again, my eyes pleading because, without him knowing it, his apologies are throwing me off and threatening to spill forth the floodgates of my unstable emotions. If that happens, I know for a fact I'll break down in tears. I can't let that happen. The last thing I want is for Peeta Mellark to see how weak I am. But he's just far too kind and nothing about this situation is his fault, he might just get a weak moment out of me.

"What are you doing here?" I whisper weakly, with too much emotion. It's a loaded question, surely he knows that.

"I should be asking you the same thing," he sighs, sliding his leg down and leaning further back into the plush seat. "But we'll get to that later. I work here, believe it or not. Clinical Psychology." He confirms the idea already forming in my mind; the white coat was an obvious giveaway. Though, I still haven't given up on the idea he's a mirage in my wild hazy imagination.

"I've been here for almost a year working towards my Residency," he continues. "It's been tough, but the rewards are worth it and I enjoy the work."

"It suites you," I reply curtly. "You've…always been good at helping people." Another loaded statement. The flinch of remembrance that crosses his expression tells me he's picked up on it this time.

"Well…I do what needs to be done." His eyes have darkened, and his gaze is so intense it's as if he's seeing right through me. He pauses for a long moment as we both stare at each other wordlessly, blue meeting gray for the first time in a decade. "Do you know why you're here?" he asks.

I nod, but say nothing else. He waits for a few seconds.

"Are you going to say it, or should I?" he asks coldly. I don't want to say it, I don't want to think about it, because then the shame will consume me. I'm scowling at him, and the tension is visible across his strong jaw. "Katniss…you need help." It's the first time he's said my name, and it still carries that sad wistful undertone to it.

I close my eyes, shaking my head at him with a grimace. "I'm fine. I'll always be fine."

"Katniss," he softly whispers. Warm hands envelop my uninjured one, spreading a heat through my body that makes me shiver. I'd like to think if I wasn't strapped down so tightly, I'd pull away from him, but I'm not so sure. "Is it okay if I ask you some questions?"

I open my eyes at a glacial pace, nodding ever so slightly it's almost imperceptible. He breathes a sigh of relief, stroking the back of my hand with his thumb. I hold onto him firmly.

"State your full name please."

"Katniss Everdeen."

"Do you know what today is?" he begins.

"May something." I answer. He tells me the exact date.

"Where are you right now?"

"A hospital in District 12." That gets a smile out of him.

"Have you been on any sort of medication? Anti-depressants?"

"No, I've never taken meds."

"Have you taken any illegal substances in the past month?"

"No." I answer clearly.

It's his turn to nod. "Do you…do you remember what happened today? Before you woke up in this place."

He's trying to make me say it, but I have no chance of avoiding it now. I take in a shaky breath and say, "I tried to kill myself." Somehow saying it aloud makes it sound infinitely worse than it really was, but I force myself to continue. "I was in my bathroom…with a razor. I was…crying my eyes out on the floor…" The restraints prevent me from wiping away a rebellious tear that escapes down my cheek, but Peeta swipes it for me with his hand. I don't think on the intimacy of the gesture, I only focus on the fact that it makes feel better, not being alone anymore.

"And I just…did it," I deadpan, my body is still shaky but I haven't broken down and that's considered an accomplished feat in my mind.

He gives me a reassuring squeeze of the hand and wipes away the remaining wetness on my face. I suddenly realize our faces are uncharacteristically close, only separated by a foot of empty space. His eyes are still boring into mine, and I'm able to see flecks of color in his irises. We both recoil back quickly, but the tension is still thick in the air and he hasn't removed the grip on me yet.

He audibly gulps, avoiding a glance in my direction. "I think that's enough for today," he stands, finally extracting himself from the chair and my hand. I'm left feeling a little cold because of it. "You should really be getting some rest," he states neutrally. His jaw is tight and I can feel the tension radiating off of him, as if he's trying to hold back whatever emotion he's feeling. "Your wrist still needs more time, but I'll be here when they come to transfer you."

I nod vigorously. "Okay."

When he looks back toward me, running a hand through his shaggy hair, his face has softened and that reserved smile makes its return. "It was great seeing you again, Katniss. I just…wish it wasn't under these circumstances."

I attempt a smile back, but it produces little success. My nerves are still too stressed to attempt anything like smiling. He backs up slowly toward the exit, giving me one last look. Just as he's about to close the door shut, I finally whisper a response.

"Me too, Peeta. Me too." But I'm not even sure if he heard me.

* * *

 **Don't forget to review, alert, or favorite and all that jazz. I'll probably upload a new story before the next chap is out, so look out for that.**


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I sadly do not own The Hunger Games. Fuck my life.

 **Hospital For Souls**

* * *

 _And then I found out how hard it is to really change. Even hell can get comfy once you're settled in._

— _Oliver Sykes_

 _The Patient_

Once Peeta is out of the room, I'm left alone with only my thoughts and the memories of the past twenty minutes. And that is the last thing that would do me any good in my current state of mind.

I try to keep myself busy—I've learned over the years that one of the best ways to take your mind off a topic is to distract yourself—but there are only so many ways to do so while strapped to a bedpost and stranded in a hospital. Luckily, I'm able to reach the call button—which I hadn't even noticed was there before—on the bed's arm. I don't know who's on the receiving end of the line, but I'm hoping beyond hope whoever it is proves to be a worthy distraction.

I'm a little surprised when I see the two orderlies arrive not long after, simply because I didn't hear them enter the room. Moving unnaturally quiet is something I've perfected in my teens and take great pride in, but it seems even the hospital staff can give me a run for my money.

They smile politely, asking me some basic questions. How am I feeling? Am I hungry? Is there anything they can be of service to? Nothing personal or medical-related. I tell them I'm famished and that the tightness of the straps is killing me.

They smile at the former, but grow nervous at the latter, exchanging furtive glances that don't go unnoticed by my confused gaze. It takes me a few moments before their actions finally dawn on me. They're frightened, because I'm the unstable deranged patient who attacked a group of nurses. Word spreads fast in these circles apparently. Though I wince at the memory of my actions, I hold no regrets. I needed to get out of this place. I still do.

Eventually, and half-heartedly, they acquiesce to loosening my bounds, being cautious in handling my injured wrist, before fetching my meal. I almost moan in relief at having the painful restrictions lifted and the extra range of motion in my arms. But they don't remove them fully. The bright red marks on my wrists finally peek out, and I rub them to soothe the sensitive skin.

I can't complain though, at least I'll be able to feed myself with my own hands now.

The orderlies come back with a bowl of chicken soup, toast and jam on the side, and a bottle of water. The food isn't terrible, albeit it's a bit far from the most appetizing meal I've had. The soup is lukewarm and under-seasoned. I tell myself it's only because I haven't eaten anything since yesterday that I find myself drooling over it.

They leave me to eat in peace, and I hungrily gobble the entire tray of food in under five minutes before it's taken away. Stomach satisfied, but still immobile, I have nothing left to fill in the long hours ahead of me. I should've taken my time with the meal instead of inhaling it.

My thoughts wonder, aimlessly, taking everything around me in. It's not… a completely uncomfortable setting. The room is designed for functionality, not luxury, at yet it gives off a feeling of privacy with its shaded—and permanently shuttered—windows. It's oddly comfortable. After living a reclusive, almost hermetic, lifestyle for the past month, it also feels somewhat strange being in a new environment and speaking to people again.

The thought doesn't last long. This is a hospital, my mind notes. This is where people come to die. It's their job to take care of me, and I've never needed taking care of before. That's not about to change. I've gone years without needing people, it's just the way my life has played out. Peeta Mellark has no right to keep me here against my will.

If it wasn't for these damn straps.

I throw my head back against the pillow, utterly frustrated, rubbing my face to at least give my arms something to do with their newfound semi-freedom. I almost laugh out loud. Free is the last thing I'm feeling. This is a four-walled cage, and I am its songbird, forced to live behind metal bars, performing, till someone unlocks the gate and releases me into the open sky.

That will never happen. They think I'm sick, they think I need to be here. Peeta thinks I need to be here. As much as I have missed the boy with the bread—and even that is difficult enough for me to admit to myself—he and his opinions on my health are not a priority I give.

I will think of a way out of this cage. Peeta is just another obstacle trying to keep me here, no better than those nurses holding me back. He won't hurt me, but he's hardly an ally of mine. This will more likely end up hurting him more than me.

A pang rips through my chest at the thought of him in pain, causing my throat to constrict. I've done enough to that boy—or man, I should say—so it's probably best I do leave instead of torture him with my presence.

But for now, I'm growing tired, and the drugs still haven't fully exited my system. I'll rest on it and hope an idea comes to mind on the details of my departure.

Sleep does not come to me easily, for good reason, but the emotional and physical exhaustion of the day is pulling me under. Within an hour, I drift off, burning out like candlelight.

* * *

 _I'm standing in a dark tunnel, at the center of a busy railway. The sound of an elevator shaft grinding and creaking fills the background. Vehicles carrying grimy men in dull uniforms and thickly smudged hard-hats pass by as if they don't notice the grown, out of place, woman in their midst. Judging by the cold, vacant stares, it's hard to tell if they could notice me at all. I have to squint to fully make out their silhouettes. They blend so easily to the shadow, with their gray attire and dark skin it's no wonder that the first word that comes to mind in describing them is ghostly._

 _If I'm being honest, I'm not surprised to find myself here of all places. This is where all my worst nightmares begin. In a coal mine, half a mile underground._

 _The walls are hard and black, smothering what little illumination is provided at this depth. I decide it suites the atmosphere perfectly. Everything here is dead, or dying. Nothing grows in these inhabitable conditions, even the camaraderie among workers only goes so far._

 _I take slow, tentative steps, even though I have no sense of direction. Every wall and crevice looks exactly the same in this cold underground labyrinth. But then a flash of color catches my eye and I'm forced to blind rapidly at the sudden brightness against the dark backdrop. I follow its path, picking up speed until I'm practically running._

 _A botch of blonde runs through the edges of my vision, forcing me to constantly turn my head in whichever direction, only to find nothing. I know what I saw. It's the one that's evading me—far too successfully for my liking. This game is quickly becoming frustrating, and agitating, but I can't seem to stop chasing the brightness in this sullen place._

 _As I'm turning my head for the hundredth time, seemingly lost in the maze, the mysterious object comes to a halt in the distance not too far away. Without its sudden movements, I realize it's not a botch of color at all._

 _It's a girl with flowing golden hair and gracefully fair skin. Her back facing me, giving me a view of the untucked shirt that forms a duck tail. And she's not alone._

 _An older miner kneels in front of her, hands resting on her upper arms, near the shoulders of her painfully white blouse. He's covered in earth, but doesn't leave a smudge of dirt on her pristine clothing. He's smiling, like a child would receiving a surprise present on his birthday. And even after so many years, after so many sleepless nights without him, I recognize the miner as my father almost immediately. I can never forget his beaming face. It's permanently etched into my nightmares, like a bad scar._

 _The identity of the girl, if not before, is now blaringly obvious. My father reserves that countenance for a select few people, but it's always its biggest and brightest around two special, specific persons. His daughters._

 _She looks so beautiful, and so much younger than when I last saw her. Gone are the rapid mid-teen growth spurts and womanly curves and voluptuous beauty of her full face. She looks no older that twelve right before my eyes. The picture of pure innocence._

 _My breath catches in my throat in wistful awe; my lips quivering at the sight. "Prim," I breathe, almost inaudibly. I don't even hear it myself._

 _She snaps her head in my direction, our eyes locking. Her cerulean blue meeting cloudy gray. Father drops his arms to allow her to turn fully and he sends me a lazy grin from behind Prim. I notice her lips are moving, and I catch the word she's mouthing as it leaves._

 _"Katniss," she whispers._

 _And then, the entire room goes up in an explosion of earth and fire._

 _I watch, helplessly, as the two people I love most in this world are incinerated before my eyes._

 _Whether the blood curling screams I release is from the terrifying scene I've witnessed, or the sudden sharp pain that stabs my body from the fire that's burning my flesh, I do not know. But either way, I have shattered. My body is wracking with cries and shouts. Agony and pain take over my senses while I writhe for an escape that will never come. I am engulfed in flames, destined to burn till my being is as black and scorched as the coal._

 _My sister's last word rings in my mind like a cruel incantation._

 _Katniss. Katniss. Katniss._

 _And then, just to torture my mind and body further, the mantra takes on an achingly familiar male voice. Peeta Mellark's voice._

 _Katniss…Katniss….wait._

"KATNISS!"

* * *

 _The Doctor_

I'm shouting now, shaking her shoulders so roughly her back is lightly bouncing off the bed, as her gray eyes fly wide open. Tears had been spilling out long before they opened up, causing rivulets to stream down her face in weird angles. But the worst is finally over now that she's regained consciousness. It was terrifying enough watching her like that.

I was making my usual rounds, a bit more anxiously than normal. This isn't even my ward, but that didn't stop me from taking my sweet time walking past her sleeping form every hour or so. The first time I checked in, she was dozing off soundlessly, calm and relaxed. I couldn't help the smile that tugged at my lips at the way her unkempt hair messily spanned out across the pillow like a halo. The second time I came around was not nearly as pleasant. She was tossing and turning so violently I was having trouble believing she was still asleep. But I recognized a night terror when I saw one. I approached with caution, fearful that with her straps loosened she might lash out in an episode and hurt herself.

Sweat stuck to her brow and her features were contorted in pain as she breathed in heavily. The heart monitor was sounding off erratically.

She stilled for a brief moment, and then she started screaming.

It would've been almost comical at how much it startled me if the situation weren't so direly serious. I crossed the room in two quick strides and gripped her tightly in my arms. It served to both pin her down and shake her out of her night terrors. But she was still squirming and crying her head off. I had to shout her name five times before she finally awoke.

And here she is, staring up at me with tear stained eyes, searching my face as if she can't believe I'm here in front of her. I dare not let go of her in her precarious state, even though the position of our bodies—her forearms trapped between our chests and my hands gripping the sides of her biceps—probably isn't the most comfortable one. But by the way she reaches up around my neck with her arms, pulling me into an improvised impromptu embrace; I realize she needs a different kind of comfort.

I return the embrace around her middle, my fingers trailing slowly up her spine, whispering, "It's over. You're okay. You're okay," and other soothing words. Then something unexpected happens: Katniss Everdeen begins to cry—really cry—in my presence. She's shaking with silent sobs like a leaf in a thunderstorm, but her hold on my neck is like a vice. It's alright though, I don't think I want her to let go.

A group of nurses headed by Octavia (a plump but short woman who's responsible for manning the nurse's station in the reception hall) is standing by the doorframe, all eyeing me with looks ranging from curious to shocked to fearful. I wave them off as discreetly as I can, not wanting to disturb Katniss, and thankfully they scatter out of the way like ants under a magnifying glass. There are sure to be rumors swarming around what they've just seen by the time I leave this room. But I'll deal with them later, for now Katniss is the only person I need to be concerned about.

Moments pass before her sobbing dies down to sniffles and hiccups, and her grip on me goes slack as she lowers herself to sit up on the bed.

She tries to compose herself as best she can in front of me, wiping her nose and puffy eyes with the back of her hand. I'm ready to give her all the time she needs. She isn't exactly the best speaker, so it comes as a surprise when she finally initiates the first words of a conversation.

"I didn't want you to see that," she says simply, her voice cracking again.

"I know… but I did."

"Well, I wish you didn't." And then she goes silent again, taking deep breaths as her heart monitor evens out. It's not a statement she's expecting a response to, and I can't find one that's appropriate enough. She's refusing to look at me, angling her face the other way to hide the streaks of tears left. Her hair provides a curtain of protection from my gaze, covering most of her expression. My fingers twitch to push it behind her ear, but they remain on my lap.

I eventually find words. "Still… I don't want you to feel like you can't come to me when you're in need." She scoffs, but otherwise remains unresponsive as I continue. "And I know how you feel about showing any sort of vulnerability. I just need you to understand that I'm not going away. I'm here for you."

Katniss, at last, graces me with an unwavering glare that does nothing to break my resolve. "You shouldn't be helping me. I'm trouble, Peeta. You and I both know that." She sounds almost sad.

"And what if I want to help you?" I counter, leaning forward challengingly.

"Then you'd be wasting your time," she replies, nonchalantly. "Nothing good is going to come out of this."

My brows furrow. "If it means you can be healthy and functioning again without having to harm yourself, then I think its damn well worth a shot." I state emphatically.

She grimaces with frustration, shaking her head. "You can't just… fix people like they're made of glass, Peeta." Her voice is shaky, brimming with emotion in her undertone. "Sometimes the pieces are just too broken."

I want to reach out and touch her, to grab hold of her the way she clung to me and whisper in her ear how wrong she really is. But I've already done that once today and it just doesn't seem like a second time is a good idea with her inconsistent, mercurial behavior.

"Katniss," I reply, gathering my words with as much firmness as I can muster. "You're not broken. Just… bent."

She doesn't look convinced. We've reached a stalemate, an understanding that neither of us will back down. She's being more stubborn than Haymitch, an act previously thought impossible, but I should've expected nothing less. She will fight me on every turn, every step toward her recovery and therapy, always at loggerheads. And she's not above playing dirty.

Surprisingly, I actually find myself up for the challenge that is Katniss Everdeen. She deserves a long, healthy life even if she doesn't realize it herself, and I will do everything in my power to make sure she gets one.

"How long have you been having night terrors?" I ask suddenly. A raw determination is running through my veins like liquid courage, and not of the white liquor kind.

She turns her head away, ignoring me as if I'd said nothing.

"What are they about?" I prod with growing conviction. "Why do you think they torment you?"

"Why do you keep asking questions you already know the answers to?" she seethes, a sneer twitching her upper lip.

Now I'm the one that grows silent. Suddenly I'm transported back to those long school mornings sitting one row back on the other side of the classroom from the girl of my dreams. I would watch her for almost hours on end each day, noticing the subtle details of her features and the emotions reflecting them. Her eyes were heavy with discolored bags underneath, her dark hair messily and hastily braided, a scowl or cool expression plastered her face, and slow uncaring movements characterized her arms and entire body. All evidence of sleep deprivation. It had started not soon after her father passed away and then continued plentifully so. After a few months however, those moments became less and less common, until they arose again occasionally, but infrequently.

It was at one of those moments of restlessness that we would have our first real face-to-face conversation. But the memory passes, and I'm drawn back to the present with the messy haired woman in front of me as if she'd never changed over the years.

"Because things are different, Katniss," I reply, evenly. "You've been gone for a long time, and I imagine you've had your fair share of new, unresolved issues."

She rolls her eyes, dismissively. "And how would you know? You said it yourself; I've been gone a long time. You don't know me."

To her surprise, I grin at her vitriol, shaking my head wistfully. "Well, if there's one thing I remember dearly about Katniss Everdeen, it's that she was—above all else—a survivor. Even if the odds were never in her favor. What could've triggered that Katniss Everdeen to give up on life all of a sudden?"

She audibly swallows, a grimace contorting her expression, and she seems to have trouble getting words out. My grin falls and I eye her with concern. The room suddenly feels colder, tension thickly weighing down the air. I'm about to reach out for her, and then she takes a deep, shaky breath and says, "You'd be right. Things are different now." Another deep breathe, and a slight hiccup escapes. Her eyes are drawn so tight she's almost on the edge of tears again. "T-there's no life for me here. I-I have no one in my life to focus on…to live for now. I don't think I'll ever be happy again."

I search her face anxiously. She believes every word she's saying. But confusion and curiosity takes over before I can think of any other responses. "I don't understand." I say, my tone softly questioning.

"Peeta…" she whispers. "There's no one else anymore. My sister is dead."

* * *

 **Don't forget to review, follow, and fav! You guys and your awesome feedback are what keep me going. And this story's just gonna get better and better.**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Hey everyone, so…long time no writing. I know I haven't updated this story in a year, and this chapter had been basically finished by then, but for some reason I just didn't feel the motivation to continue this story. I feel terrible for that. I truly loved this story when I first started it, and it had so much potential in the beginning. It still does, and as I've moved on to other things in the meantime—new hobbies and sports, furthering my education, writing my first legitimate novel (which will take me years, but has already done wonders for my soul)—I've realized how much I miss fanfiction, this universe, the fanbase, and this story in particular. This story is my child, and it's one I care about deeply. I don't want to abandon it or give it away for adoption. I will do this story justice, no matter how much it might kill me. Hope you all enjoy!

* * *

 _The Doctor, 11 years old_

The weather outside is disappointing. Again. It's yet another rainy day. This has to be the wettest spring of my life, but that's not saying much when you're as young as I am—or when it's not officially spring.

The raindrops smack against the thin glass frame with faint, but high-noted _ticks_ , like the inner working gears of a watch's minute hand. Two particularly large droplets race each other down the inclined surface with ease. I'm betting the left-most one will overtake it, but the one on right ends up winning. Just my luck.

I sigh again, resting my head in my palm, smearing flour all over my chin and cheek. I should really be working but it's a slow day up front. Bannock already took off to meet his friends before the weather could worsen and Rye is upstairs in our room trying to catch some much-needed shuteye from an early wakeup—and he was never a morning person to begin with, a terrible trait for a baker's son. That just leaves me and Dad on our own in the bakery for the next few hours. I don't have it in me to blame them for leaving me here. After the morning rush, barely anyone is willing to brave the sleet and storm for a fresh loaf of bread they don't desperately need. And Mom… well, she's having one of her ' _bad days_ ' again. We've learned (rather quickly) that it's best to leave her alone in her room on those days. The doctor said she acts differently at these times, and that it's somehow a bad thing. It's good we're all content giving her space.

I don't like being alone, but at least I'm well entertained.

The window of the kitchen where we bake the majority of our products gives me a more than decent view of the yard and outlying trees. If the rain wasn't tampering with my view and distorting the image, I'd be sketching the backdrop with the order-pad I keep in my pocket. There's an apple tree out there, probably older than my parents, nearly skeleton bare from this winter, but with a few visible buds waiting to burst open at the first hint of warm sunshine. One look up at the cloudy sky reminds me that, although far from freezing compared to a month ago, the weather doesn't look like it's about to let up anytime soon. _If it isn't snowing, it's pouring,_ Bannock complained in the morning; another sigh escapes me. I've missed the brightness of the sun. The warmth. The longer days playing outside. The cheerily prevalent mood in the air. Many other things.

There's always something different about Twelve when the sun is up, (being a baker's son, the picturesque sunrise greets me almost every day) and more so in the winter. As if it's a beautifier, highlighting the district with streaks of light like the makeup people on TV use. Rye says I should stop watching Capitol channels. He says I'll turn into a girl.

I shake my head of that thought because it's not a pretty picture. But Rye also says I should start thinking about girls at around my age.

That's not a problem, I've given it some thought but they're not all that interesting. Well, _most_ of them aren't, except… my mind can only ever focus on one special girl. One with two braids of dark hair, olive skin, and wide mercury gray—

"Peeta!" Dad calls, snapping me out of my daydreams. I blink back to reality, wiping the flour off my hands on a random towel and run out of the swinging door to meet him in the storefront.

He's standing by the mudroom, slipping his burly arms through his heavy winter raincoat and pulling the zipper closed. "I'm heading out for a second, buddy. Need to grab a few things from the grocer for tomorrow's batch of tarts and scones."

I look out the display window, which showcases the pouring weather and the rush of ground water on the streets and sidewalks with concern. "But it's still storming outside." I point out.

I don't like the idea of him going outside in that storm.

He notices my trepidation, kneeling before me to match my gaze at eye-level. "Don't worry, I won't be out long. No more than ten minutes tops, I promise. Your old man just has to carry out a few chores," he says, lips tugged up in his patented crooked grin.

I nod understandingly. "Okay."

"Think you can handle the whole shop by yourself?" he asks, eyebrows raised conspiratorially.

"I'm not a baby, Dad." I say, unable to resist rolling of my eyes. He laughs loudly, trying to ruffle my already messy hair. I swat at his hands, embarrassed.

"Don't remind me, but listen, Peet," his tone shifts noticeably. It becomes something more serious, causing me to focus right away. "Your Mother isn't feeling well these days. So I need you to take good care of the bakery. No running around, no horseplay that'll disturb her, alright? You can man the counter till I get back."

"But she'll get better eventually, right?"

His face falls as he pauses for a long moment before he sighs, the sadness evidently breaking through the surface of his normally light, gaily disposition. It's a change I so rarely see from him.

"I hope so, Peet. I really hope so."

There's an edge to his voice, an uncertainty looming in it. I realize that's about as honest an answer as I'll get, and then he pushes his way out the mudroom's door, into the unrelenting gray skies and downpour.

I do as I'm told and man the counter and register vigilantly. It's too high for me to just stand there without assistance so I reach for the stool. Both Rye and Bannock finished using the thing when they were around my age, but I've always been the shortest runt of the bunch. I'm careful not to make too much noise, since the bedrooms are directly above on the second floor. I sit down as the minutes tick by.

Nothing happens, as expected, and dust particles are beginning to settle along the hardwood of the counter. Or, at least, I'm imagining them to be. I've never been particularly impatient, but growing up in a regularly tight-knit, crowded household, lonesome and solitary moments are a rarity. It's not something I find very comforting.

I'm contemplating going upstairs to fetch my sketchbook to pass the time. My order pad, albeit better than nothing, is far too small for my taste and—

And someone is standing outside the bakery, ducking into a shadow when I raise my gaze to identify whom it might be.

I'm frozen with fright for a long second, until I catch a glimpse of him/her through the display window, and suddenly my mysterious window-stalker doesn't seem as terrifying anymore. It's definitely female, judging by the way the long strings of hair follow her form into the shadows. She's not very tall either, no more than an inch or two more than me. I come round the counter and approach the mudroom slowly, peaking my head out the door. Wind slaps me in the face, chilling my exposed skin and causing a shiver to run through me. The tent above my head keeps out the rain, but little else. I feel for whoever is walking these streets, exposed to the elements.

My window-stalker comes into view as I fully step out into the cold in nothing but my thin sweater and a flour streaked apron. She's backed into the alley by the side of our shop window, a wild fear profound in her silver irises. A familiar silver…

"Katniss?" I breathe. "What are you doing here?"

She seems at a loss for words, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. She looks more afraid of me than I was of her.

"It's freezing, come inside." I hold the door open for her. The warm air of the ovens escapes deliciously into the open, taking the edge off the shivers and goose bumps of the frigid breeze.

The intake of a breath, the way her eyes almost flutter to a close, and the slight parting of her lips alerts me she feels it too. And any remaining resolve she might have cracks as she slowly moves past me into the shop.

 _I'm crazy_ _. What am I doing?_ I think to myself. I should be manning the bakery, not playing around or inviting friends over. On the other hand, Katniss and I can't be described as friends. This is the first time we've ever spoken face-to-face since kindergarten, despite my keen interest in her. She looked so lost, so…feral, like an abandoned creature wondering the pavement, I couldn't resist helping in any way I can. Even if she _is_ a stranger. And besides, it was the polite thing to do. It was only recently that her father had been claimed in a mine accident; this could be my way of showing condolence.

She stands frozen in the entrance hall, where customers would line up to the counter or sit at the rickety benches. I move to sit back at my stool, mindful of my initial duties, and face her from behind the counter.

The room is small by most standards; its purpose simply for customers to place orders and leave, but the distance between us feels vast. She looks so out of place with her baggy thermal trousers and the tweed jacket meant for someone twice—or possibly three times—her breadth. The wild glint in her eyes has thankfully receded, though a hint of awkwardness marks her posture.

We're both silent, but not for long.

"You… called me by my name," Katniss murmurs, just audible enough not to be a whisper. Her are fixed firmly on her worn boots. "I didn't think you'd even know it."

"Why wouldn't I?" My brows furrow, keeping my voice low enough for my mother's sake. We may not be close but we _are_ in the same grade at school. That should merit something, right?

She gives a nonchalant shrug, her tweed jacket almost falling completely off her rail-thin shoulders. She then holds it tighter around her frame. It comes to mind that the jacket might actually belong to her father, since he has no use for it now.

I take a deep breath, "I'm… sorry." She looks up quickly at my words, confused. "About your dad, I mean. My dad said he was a really cool guy when they were young. They weren't friends or anything, but they went to school and he said they knew each other well and—"

And now I'm babbling and bringing up memories of her dead father. Please somebody shoot me. Luckily, she holds a hand up to me, clearly a signal for me to stop. Her expression is tense, as if she's fighting the urge to cringe and her eyes are squeezed shut for a long time.

She relaxes into a blank expression with vacant eyes, saying, "Thank you… for your sympathy."

Like her face, her words are said without any emotion, as if it's become an effortless saying, a routine. I imagine it has over the months.

I'm at a loss of what to say next, embarrassed and regretting everything I've spoken thus far. _Idiot!_ I mentally slap myself. _Can't you say something that won't offend her!_ Then an idea comes to my mind and I brighten up.

"Are you hungry?" I ask her, enthusiastically. The vacant glare instantly morphs into one of suspicion and shock, as if I've solved some puzzle. I don't let it bother me, this is something I excel at. "We have the best bread in the district. White, whole grain, rye, banana nut is actually my favorite. We have a lot left over today 'cause the weather is keeping people away, would you like some? It's a shame to put it to waste."

Her mouth is doing that opening and closing movement again, as if she's internally debating the idea. I like how her eyes are suddenly alight once again, it's much prettier on her grey irises than the hollow, coldness of a moment ago.

"I… I don't have any money," she protests, meekly. "Or anything to trade."

I shake my head. "It's all on me." She still seems to be struggling with herself, to the point where she's looking uncomfortable.

Her indecision actually emboldens me more. I go around the counter and come back with two loaves from off the shelf. They're whole wheat, mixed with nuts and raisins with hints of cinnamon, only slightly over baked to keep them warm with the lack of customers. But they're rich and soft to the touch. It couldn't be more perfect for a cold rainy day.

"Here, take them." I nearly plead with her, bagging them and extending it toward her.

She's still hesitant, and her bottom lip is starting to quiver, as if she's going to cry. I'm alarmed by the amount of emotion she's struggling with over two loaves of bread. I almost pull my hand back, an apology already on my lips if I've offended her—yet again!—in some way or done something wrong. But then she leaps at me like an animal, her arms encircling me in a surprisingly tight embrace, even through the thick layers of clothes she's wearing. She breathes in deeply, a sound escaping as if she's chocking on the very air.

"Thank you," she whispers, almost incoherently. I feel a pair of lips graze my cheek for a fleeting second and the bag of bread slip from my fingers. And then she's running out the door.

I don't know how long I stay frozen in that exact spot, an impossible warmth spreading from my cheek down to my toes, my fingers still curled as if there were something to hold onto, but my father comes back eventually. It could've been a few seconds, or a few hours. It's hard to tell as I focus on the moisture still attached to my left cheek.

"Peeta, I'm back. Damn cold is almost unbearab—" he pauses, almost with an edge of concern. "Peeta… why are blushing?"

* * *

 _The Patient, present day_

If there's one thing that's happened to have gone right for me today, it was the pleasure of a dreamless sleep. One horrible nightmare is enough for the day, but I'm too smart to think it'll be my last. It doesn't stop me from hoping though.

My eyes flutter ajar as I wake up to an empty room, the soft sunlight of a cloudy morning seeping through the fixed windows. A sigh of disappointment escapes me when I realize this is only day two of my undesired stay at the hospital. My first thought is that it must be only 7 in the morning, judging by the faint brightness. Who knows how many long countless other mornings are awaiting me in this prison?

The hurry of footsteps perks my ears and all the bustling noises outside my door startle me into complete consciousness. I turn my body in their direction and listen intently, pushing myself up off the bed in what must likely resemble the position of a defensive feral cat. My muscles are as taut as a coil. I'm transfixed on everything I'm hearing through the other side of the door.

I've been waking up to a soundless house for too many months for the background noise not to capture my immediate attention.

I slowly sink back down into a more relaxed posture once I've established the lack of an obvious danger, though the noise has yet to settle down. It's still very early. I don't want to lie around being inactive and lazy, but exiting the—begrudgingly—comfortable room I'm in is not as desirable either. So, I settle for tossing and turning, both in my bed and in my head.

The events and conversations of last night flow back into my memory, now that I have an ample amount of time to think over them.

"Peeta, my sister is dead."

He knows. I told him. He asked for it, and I still have nightmares to this day. I have absolutely no idea how he can be of any help in my situation.

There are quite a few things I vividly recall after those thoughts, however—one of them being to remove the straps completely off of me. Not loosening them, like the nurses had done. They were gone. I was immensely thankful for that, but I dared not convey my gratitude. I was still in the emotionally vulnerable stage of spewing out the secret I never wanted to tell him.

Peeta Mellark is obviously a very dangerous man if he can get me to do something like that. How is it that he can have this much of an effect on me? It's unsettling, to say the least. We didn't talk much after that, I can tell he wanted to, but most likely thought it was best for another day.

He seemed saddened by the news, to his credit, in an admirably respectful way.

But everyone grieved once they heard about Prim. She was loved immensely, by just having an irresistible personality. She was the social butterfly, the comforting best friend, the life of the crowd. No one cared for the older, brooding, defensive sister left to handle the fallout. No one's ever stuck around for very long.

The fact that I have no memory of how it happened is perhaps the worst of all. I can't give Peeta the answers he's looking for. One day I had a sister, and the next, I didn't. I had woken up in a hospital in the Capitol, 2 days had passed, a doctor told me. They suspected a car accident. There's no way for me to verify that without a working memory. I left the Capitol for District 12 about a week later, without a sibling.

I despise being back in one, the thought tugging at my chest. _Maybe it's just another bad dream_ , a part of me still thinks. _Maybe I'll wake up from this._

My door opens suddenly, and I flinch at the movement, my muscles going rigid once again. A chubby nurse slips inside, the rumble of noises outside sound much closer without the barrier to distort and muffle them. The first thing that strikes me about her, besides the fact she's about to invade my personal space, is her ridiculously fake green hair.

"Good morning, deary," she chirps as if everything was well in the world and tragedy only a fairy tale to scare children. She prattles on, "You're an early riser, aren't you? So nice to see others enjoying the new day, not everybody is a morning person around here."

The preppy nurse approaches me, my guard not dropping for a second. She reaches for my injured arm, signaling with her eyes this is what she's here for, and I reluctantly allow her to examine it, an irritated huff escaping me as I turn my gaze away.

"Hm," she hums appreciatively, removing my bandages and cleaning what remains of the wound with a clean cloth dabbed in alcohol. "That's healing up great, thankfully it wasn't too deep. Could've gone straight to the bone with how thin you are. Meaning you get an extra big breakfast today."

She talks too much. I'm not that thin. I wish it had been a deeper cut. But I offer no objections to the extra food. As far as nursing goes, she's not bad. My mother wasn't nearly as talkative though.

"How long will I be here?" I ask automatically. It's a ridiculous question no doubt, but I'm not sure what the answer will be out of my green-haired caregiver. My curiosity outweighs my suspicion.

She returns a shy, sympathetic smile. "Sorry, honey. That's not for me to decide." But then she leans in close as if to share a secret, like with her fellow nurses behind the reception desk discussing crushes and hospital gossip. The thought nearly makes me gag. "I do know that they'll be transferring you today, probably to Dr. Abernathy's ward. For now though, any questions you have, send them to Dr. Mellark, he'll be here soon to check up on you," she pulls back, finishing that last part with a knowing wink. "You're lucky, he's one of the cute ones in these parts."

The idea of gagging still hasn't receded from my mind, though now it's mixed with a pull in my stomach and nervousness at the foreboding awkwardness.

After she's finished her work and wrapped me up once more, she stands to leave. "Wait," I catch her with my words before she has the chance. "I didn't get your name."

She's slightly caught off guard by the statement. I suspect it's because I'm not great at making nice or small talk, but an ally would be tremendously helpful in my current situation. Peeta can't be relied on. He's too dangerous; he keeps bringing up these…feelings outside of my control. I'll think of a better word to describe _that_ later. The nurse, however, seems as harmless as a fly. She smiles widely and sweetly after a brief second, "Octavia, at your service." She curtsies like a princess. My returned smile falls flat.

"Breakfast will be in hour," she says. "Why don't you take a look around the courtyard. It's no good being cooped up in here all day, and you look like you could use some fresh air, honey." She gives me another not-so-innocent knowing look, but this time I don't understand it. The word 'courtyard' though, has me itching to get out of this bed. I miss the sun, the breeze, the sky. I need to know it's still there even if I'm trapped in hell.

She leaves the room silently, and I wait all of about four seconds before ripping the covers off and out the door as well.

* * *

I'm pretty satisfied with this chapter as a whole, nearly 4k words! It might mostly be filler and fluff, but who doesn't enjoy that on occasion? All I can say is, whether it takes me 3 weeks or 3 months, this story will continue to be updated. I'm so glad to be back and enjoying writing again. Don't forget to drop a review! Every word of encouragement counts. Till next time.


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